


The Magician's Map

by eag



Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Death, Fillory, Gen, Loss, Love, M/M, Magic, Other, Road Trips, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In our world, there is another Benedict Fenwick, a young computer programmer whose mapping program has somehow opened a portal to Fillory.  Meanwhile, Ember sends Eliot on a quest.</p><p>Post-Magician King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greekhoop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/gifts).



When Benedict was five, he wrote his first program. By the time he was eight, there were people who called him a Mozart of the programming world, writing huge elegant worlds of code as easily as other people listened to music. But now at age twenty, he felt like a total burnout, like all the dreams and potential that his childhood had promised were now gone. As if the spark that drove him and that made people call him a genius and opened doors for him had somehow fizzled out into unimportance.

History was littered with failed child geniuses, and Benedict had become one of them.

At age sixteen, he was one of the core programmers behind a major mapping program. Like a secret cartel behind the scenes, they sent out hundreds of drones to collect data, and he had built a beautiful algorithm that crunched and digested the data, spitting out a virtual three-dimensional world that was an exact replica of the actual world. It was breathtaking in scale and it had somehow in the process, it had taken away all his dreams.

Because as he found himself in that high-tech glass and light idea farm, with its primary colors and beanbag chairs and Thai food lunches, he realized that something about doing this had left him completely empty. That he had no friends, no meaningful conversations, nothing but the world of code and creativity where he had been feeding someone else's dreams and someone else's wallet.

So two years into it, he quit. Used the money he had saved up, building his own investment algorithms that hummed at the rate of e to be his own private venture capital firm, and locked himself in a one bedroom house in Santa Barbara that ate electricity at the rate of a minor city block.

But what to build, what to make? He had trouble deciding at first, but then after many nights of dreams of wandering through strange buildings and strange cities, of shattered ruins and towers that scraped the moon, he realized what he would build. It would be his greatest work ever, built upon the adolescent dream of his map project, only greater and with more vector calculus.

It would be a greater project than the one he had helped build, going beyond three to four dimensions, so time would pass accurately. And it would not map any known worlds, but imaginary ones, worlds of fantasy that he had only seen before in books or dreams. It would be the grandest multivariable calculus project ever, predictive software that could build up two-dimensional fairy tale maps into fourth dimensional living, breathing worlds. 

He built physical matrices to stretch into a model infinity or as much infinity as his house could contain, models that would contain the seeds of his world. Functions within functions within functions. The parameters could be changed at will and adjusted. Infinite worlds could be contained in one masterwork program. Any point in time and space could be seen and wandered through, as if the real world.

It was breathtaking in scale but lonely in work. Sometimes he had to go back and fix things as they came along, only to notice tiny errors in logic, transpositions that he had somehow made in those late night coding runs where he just let his fingers do the work and made awkward mistakes. It was something that felt unforgivable; he had years of perfection; how could he fail?

And so he felt that Mozart mystique had crumbled into a totally competent but unremarkable Salieri. As if age had dulled his skills. But he persisted, working almost non-stop for another two years, feeling his life crumbling slightly around him, alone and no longer answering phone calls or even the door, other than to take in groceries or take out trash.

It was almost 4 A.M. Benedict booted up the program and was rewarded with a quick startup. Out of habit, he timed it, and enjoyed that it took exactly 3.14 seconds, just like he had planned.

He started with his favorite simulation, Fillory. Took a spin around Whiteshire Castle, admiring the stonework and the clockwork-powered towers. Saw the clouds shift overhead, where the hippogriffs rode the wind, bulkier than pelicans but far more impressive. Then, he gave his mouse a few spins at random, eyes half-shut. It was good craftsmanship, and he felt good about it.

He glanced lazily at the screen, wondering if he would see clock trees or even the Wandering Desert, but no, this was an altogether different place. Benedict sat up straighter in his Herman Miller Aeron chair. 

There was a wall and it divided a beach and what seemed like an endless jungle beyond a cliff. Except the jungle and the cliff were reversed, upside-down. The sky was the ground and the ground was the sky.

He clicked his mouse; the coordinates came up. On the left, where the beach was, the coordinates showed 0+, limit approaching zero. On the right, over the wall, the numbers were not only irrational, they were also imaginary. He blinked; it shouldn't have been possible. The values should have been real. Even if was an imaginary world, the math shouldn't work this way.

He wondered how this could have happened, and wondered if it had to do with some coding error. A moment later, he was backing up and out of the way as fast as possible, because a man's face filled the screen, as if peering into the camera that was peering at him. 

Benedict had a vague impression of olive skin and dark hooded eyes, and then he gave a little scream and then things became very confusing after that.

*****

In some ways, there was no time where Bingle had been. Days passed, but in the deep twilight of the thick jungle, it seemed that all was night. He had lost Abigail the sloth mere minutes after he had descended (and then ascended on the other side) from the great ladder on the other side of the wall; she had slipped off his back and into the trees, lost in the dank darkness. 

Sometimes he used his magical sword for the faint silvery light it emanated, or to slice through the thick woody vines or rubbery leaves that oozed red sap as though it was blood. And it was as if Bingle could never really step away from that blood, could never really leave it behind. Even here the trees wept it as he cut through, trying to find a path, trying to find a direction.

This was his life; this was his destiny. Fate's sword, he thought to himself, over and over, and he could feel the weight of that burden as if he carried it physically. He had made his decisions; he had done what had to be done. There was no time to regret, only time to move forward and forget. He had been doing it all his life, ever since the moment he first picked up a sword and awkwardly did what he did not mean to do, even though his life was on the line.

Bingle heard a sound, a clicking, cold and mechanical. Perhaps it was some sort of beast or monster. He didn't bother drawing his sword, not yet at least. There was still time to decipher the mystery, to try to make peace. The sword was more of a last resort.

Bingle shouldered his way through the entangling vines, gently easing his slender, wiry frame between two massive trees grown tight together. Just beyond the vines, there was a light. A cool blue glow that left the air veritably singing with magic, as if the world was suddenly infused with it.

The glow grew brighter; he stepped forward carefully, wondering if it was anything like the things he had seen on his voyages with the kings of Fillory.

And then he saw a face. Like the old tale of the boy in the stars, a face was peering at him from what seemed like a squareish moon of light, a face filled with curiosity and confusion, a face that he had only seen in his dreams and nightmares, a face that he remembered seeing last covered in blood.

Bingle couldn't help himself. He found himself walking briskly, then running, heart pounding in his throat in a way that he rarely felt, even in battle.

Without a word, without a thought he stepped into that squareish moon, and found himself catching the heel of his boot on a heavy wooden desk, his swords almost tangling in a mess of thin metal blinds that covered the windows. He crouched there for a moment as he stepped through, and his back leg accidentally knocked over two of the half dozen large flat panel computer monitors that were arrayed around the desk like small standing monoliths. His leading foot slid minutely against the table, leaving a scratch and knocking the mouse to the hardwood floor with a crisp clatter.

“Benedict.” The word caught in his throat, and he could feel the tears well up in his eyes.

Benedict looked pale and sickly, thin arms splayed out in alarm. He let out a little screech, and fainted. Bingle leapt forward and caught him, just before he hit the ground.

For a moment, Bingle could not breathe. Benedict was not a shade, not a cold ghost waiting in the darkness of the afterlife with hollow eyes. He was alive. Bingle could feel the boy's breath warm against his throat, his long black hair flopping over his eyes.

This meant that Bingle had been wrong. That he was not fated to repeat the same mistakes. That he had been given anew, that life that he had never really had for himself. All those years of struggle, of running and of escaping the past had somehow eased away from him.

All because the boy was still alive.

It was the first sign of hope he had in years.

Bingle turned his head away, mouth tight, because he didn't want his tears fall on and wake Benedict.

*****

Bingle looked around. The room was a minor wasteland of cups and plates and pieces of wire and paper and string, glowing with fantastic, unearthly light. A wizard's work chamber, he guessed, and perhaps Benedict, a few years older by his estimation, had become a wizard on the far side of the far side of the world. He recognized nearly nothing; so much here was alien to him. He drew Benedict's dead weight against him, but no, but it wasn't truly dead weight. It was very much alive, and he took care not to bang Benedict's long legs against the door frame as he dragged him into an adjoining bedroom. With an absentminded shove, he pushed the twin mountains of books off the bed, letting them slither to the floor, and carefully deposited Benedict onto it, tucking him in neatly.

With practiced precision, Bingle unslung his swords and placed them neatly beside him, one at each hand. He sat, resting his back against the bed, and closed his eyes. The softness of the mattress behind his back was all that it took. Within a few minutes he was asleep.

In the other room, a converted living room/dining room that had been turned into a giant programming workroom, the computers hummed and whirred softly. Usually by this hour some of them would have been turned off or left to quietly render big projects overnight.

Where the mouse fell to the floor, it had landed partially on a small depression on the wood floor, a filled-in knot that had not been filled in quite completely. Gravity took over, and the mouse flipped onto its side with a tiny click.

Somewhere between Bingle stepping through and stepping off the desk, the image on the main knocked-over monitor had changed, from a vast and dark jungle to a unremarkable set of double doors built into an unassuming brick wall. The geographical coordinate numbers spun and spun, as if unable to decide on a fixed value. 

A brief flash of a face; a young boy's, sharp featured and black-haired, and then nothing but the doors again. A moment later, a darkness seemed to seep out of the monitor and into the real world, pooling briefly along the long scratch that Bingle's boot had left on the wood, before disappearing as the sun rose.

*****

What woke Benedict was not so much the sun (he had long ago covered his windows with foil and black construction paper and then a layer of blackout curtains just in case) as the smell. Deep, musky, vegetal – like BO mixed with a botanical garden and a side of rotten flowers. He woke up and tried to remember the last time he had actually slept in the bed; usually he just crashed out on the couch next to the computers, listening to their soothing mechanical hum. 

He wondered if he had accidentally left something in the bedroom to grow mold and die, and then realized he couldn't remember how he got to bed. He had been running his program; he had seen-

Benedict turned his head and gasped. There, sitting beside his bed, head tipped forward in repose, was a stranger, dressed in a plain dark outfit that looked like some kind of military uniform. Even from this angle Benedict could see the swords on the ground by his side, and how the man was covered all over, especially around his arms, with long streaks of garish red, like fresh blood.

He put aside his immediate sense of panic. He was unhurt; and besides, blood dried brown, not red. If it was fresh, it would have been all over the place. But no, it was merely there, as if it had always been there.

He sat up carefully, eyes on the stranger, afraid to make a move. He tried to remember where the phone was, and then remembered that he hadn't bother charging it in months. Perhaps if he was careful, he could-

“Benedict.” The stranger hadn't moved, but it was obvious he was awake. How long had he been awake? How did he know his name?

“Y-yeah? That's me...” Flustered, Benedict wondered if he could hop over the stranger or at least clamber off the end of the bed. He just _had_ to push the damned thing against the wall...

“You...you're well?” The stranger lifted up his head, but didn't look over, didn't try to make eye contact.

“Yeah. I'm fine, I guess.”

“Then...it's all good.” The stranger stood up. He was built just about average, Benedict guessed. On the lean side, not terribly tall or short. 

“Yeah. It's uh, all good.”

The stranger paused, and Benedict could see what seemed like a tiny building of tension in his back, in the muscles of his shoulders. And then he leaned down, and he picked up two sheathed swords.

“Jesus Christ...” Benedict backed up before he realized it, feeling his back slam against the cold wall. “What the-”

“Oh, this.” The stranger half turned to show him the swords. His mouth was a taut line, and his hooded eyes made him seem almost sleepy. “Don't you remember?”

“Remember? Remember what?”

“When we sailed-”

“Look, mister, I don't know who you are-”

“Bingle.”

“Bingo?” Benedict stared, jaw slack. Did he hear that right? “That's totally a fake name.”

“No, it's not. Upon my honor,” the man brought his hand to his chest. It was a smooth, courtly gesture, strangely elegant and old-fashioned, “I am Bingle.” 

“All right. So how'd you break in? What do you want? Who sent you?” Benedict got up out of bed and went around the small house, looking for signs of entry. Nothing had been moved or touched, but for his computer rig. He ran over to check it, to put things back in order, straightening up the knocked-over monitors and picking up his mouse. The map simulator had crashed sometime while he was asleep. He sighed, and wondered what caused the error, deciding that he would go and run another comprehensive bug test to find the breaks.

“I did not...break in. I merely walked, through a magical portal.” Bingle laid his swords down, leaning against the sofa. “I saw you and...I followed.” He looked a little embarrassed. “And no one sent me. I was...on the far side of the world.” 

“You mean like China? Are you a corporate spy?”

“No, no. Beyond the wall on the far side of the world,” Bingle said simply.

Benedict immediately thought of China again, but then realized that this wasn't a matter of asking a question, but the right kind of question. It wasn't like he had read all those fantasy novels for nothing. “So uh...the far side of what world?”

“Fillory.” 

Benedict was silent for a long moment. It couldn't possibly be true, could it? But he had been looking at his model Fillory, and he had seen some other side of it, some alternate side that wasn't even bound by the physics of his modeling engine. Could it be...

Benedict flopped down on his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. “You know what, Bingo, just let me think for a few. Why don't you...why don't you go take a shower or something, you smell pretty bad. There's some clean clothes in there that you could wear. I guess I can toss your clothes in the machine or something.”

“Bingle. Not Bingo.” But then Bingle stood there silently for a moment, until Benedict realized that the swordsman didn't quite understand what he had just suggested. So he walked Bingle through the whole situation, and when he was alone, he sat down and stared at his computer as the soft patter of the shower sounded in the distance.

Fillory. It couldn't be, but it was. Could it be possible? Could he have unwittingly opened some kind of magic portal? Benedict didn't know for certain, but he wanted it to be true, wanted it so badly that he could nearly taste it. His program was powerful; perhaps it had taken on a life of its own. There were segments of the code that were self-generating and self-replicating. Perhaps it could have spawned something...

Then again, was it a figment of his imagination? He had taken the stranger's clothes himself and dumped the smelly mess into the washing machine. Even though he washed his hands twice, he could still smell the hint of jungle stench clinging to his fingers. Unless it was a brain tumor, that smell was very real. 

“And if it was a brain tumor, isn't it supposed to smell like toast or something?” Benedict sat back in his chair. No, he had examined the swords while Bingle was in the shower. They were real, hand-forged, and one was forged of some metal that he couldn't identify. Nothing that was from around here. And the way the man moved...it wasn't like anything he had seen before, not in movies, not in real life...it was as though a myth come alive, that sinuous ease and erect poise.

He blushed, covering his face with his hands, remembering that Bingle had stripped down to nothing as the water ran hot, graciously handing Benedict an armload of filthy red-streaked clothes. They looked as to have been black once, but had faded and faded until they were merely a deep charcoal gray.

“Thank you,” Bingle had said, not bothering to conceal his nakedness, and Benedict had fled, heart pounding in a way that was alien even to him.

The memory kept him blushing, and that was how Bingle found him.

“Excuse me.” Bingle's flat, slightly disinterested voice brought him back to reality. 

“Oh, it's you...” And Benedict found himself blushing harder; Bingle was standing with only a scanty threadbare towel girding his loins.

“Yes, I could not find where you kept the clean clothes.” It seemed like a very diplomatic way of saying that there were no obvious places clean clothes would be kept because the house was such a disaster zone that Benedict himself wasn't sure where clean clothes were. So Benedict got up and dug through his room, finding some underwear, a pair of jeans, and a t-shirt. Luckily, they were almost of a size, though Bingle's body was more girt with muscle. So the jeans that were loose on Benedict and needed a belt sat easily on Bingle's hips, and even Benedict's old Rhapsody of Fire t-shirt looked better on Bingle than it ever had on him. He gave Bingle a pair of clean socks, and Bingle tugged his long boots on, tucking ends of the jeans into the brown leather. Benedict stared for a moment; he had never seen boots like this before, worn and weathered by salt and wind and scuffed from the marks of a dozen fights on a dozen battlefields, if not more.

“Were these battle damaged? Did you fight in these?” Bingle fingered the holes in the knees and along the upper thigh. 

“No, it was just...they came this way. It was kind of a popular look I guess.” Benedict tried to remember where he had gotten these pants. Must have been something his mom bought him back in the day when they still talked.

“Oh.” Bingle seemed strangely disappointed, but then he took Benedict's hand suddenly, his calloused hand feeling the soft smooth skin. “I see. You are...working with maps, are you not?”

“How...how did you know?”

“It's what you've always done.” Which seemed to explain everything and nothing all at the same time.

“Look, this is just really weird...how do you know so much about me? Are you my stalker?” Benedict tried to figure out how Bingle could have known so much about him. Could it have been from his days working with out in the real world? It wasn't like Benedict had much of an online presence, he had always eschewed message boards and chat rooms, and Facebook and Myspace were places for people who had time to bullshit with their friends. And who had friends.

“I am not hunting you.” Bingle looked him in the eye, and it was a strange, unnerving sensation. “There would be no reason to treat you as quarry. There was a time recently when we were both in the service of the kings and queens of Fillory and quested with them in their retinue, for over a year. But...you don't remember, do you?”

“Man, I've never even been out of the country,” Benedict sighed. “I mean, I haven't even been to Mexico. Isn't that embarrassing?”

“I'm sorry, I don't know where this 'Mexico' is.” Bingle looked him over. “Are you certain you don't remember?”

“No.”

“Then, perhaps...it was another Benedict.” Bingle's eyes looked cold and the expression in them faraway. “Another Benedict in another time.”

“I'm the only one I know,” Benedict said, pulling his hand away. “So...let's just say there was another Benedict. What...what happened to him?”

“He died.” 

*****

Died. The thought sent a shudder through Benedict's body. When he had asked Bingle what had happened, Bingle's mouth closed to a tight, neat seam and his jaw clenched. He stalked away, slipping outside into the confines of the overgrown garden, leaving Benedict alone in his house.

Benedict paused, wondering if he should go and talk to Bingle, but then decided against it, going back to debug his program. He opened it up and started fiddling around, looking for bugs and other things that might explain what happened last night. Part of him knew it had to be something logical, something that he created. And the other part wanted to believe it was pure magic.

This time when he started up the program, he changed it not to Fillory, but to the real world. He had made a tiny template of the real world, modeling just a few major cities in the United States for reference, something to get his fantasy worlds going. Like a shadow, inverted, where the fantasy would be more real than the real world. He had used it early on to model what he wanted to do with the imaginary worlds, and he thought this time it might be a useful way to get an idea of what happened.

He looked around his real world model of San Francisco. It was empty of people, as it should have been, though occasionally a small animal would wander by. That was normal; it was how he programmed it. Empty of people, just nature and vistas and great empty cities. Grass shivered in the breeze, a flock of feral parrots fluttered into a tree perched upon a hill. Outside it was turning fall; the program matched reality's seasonal shifts. He had personally referenced huge weather databases to make it realistic.

Benedict roamed around the city with his mouse, clicking here and there, hovering over objects to see what their values were. Everything was normal. No strange imaginary numbers, nothing unusual. Perhaps it was a problem that was limited to the Fillory world, he wondered, and then moved his mouse to the right.

By chance, the cursor hovered over a door. It was nothing that looked special, just a door in an old Victorian house in San Francisco, in one of those districts where homes stood in neat rows and were painted in loving detail, squashed between tall buildings and the hum and bustle of the city. This particular house was painted a pretty vivid purple with gold and dark blue trim, and it made Benedict smirk a little; it was like looking at some kind of old timey bordello or maybe the inside of a Persian restaurant gone bad.

“All right...” With a light movement of his wrist, he meant to move away from it, but then he noticed that the door was an object he could actually interact with. There was a little resistance on the mouse, as if the cursor could somehow stick to the virtual object.

Confused, he clicked. That option should give him coordinates. And it did; he glanced at the numbers and they were reasonable. But what it shouldn't have done was open the door.

He could just about peer inside. It was an oddly homey looking room despite the fact that the walls were wallpapered in royal blue with gold fleur-de-lis and the furniture was all dark wood and horsehair upholstery. He could just barely see down the hall; there was a mirror in a big gilt frame that looked almost like a window, except it was set just under the L-bend of the stairs where no windows could be. And...suddenly the reflection in the mirror changed, and he could see a night-time seaside. A man stepped forward out of the mirror; he was wearing a crown and he looked directly at Benedict and smiled a crooked, snaggle-toothed smile-

Benedict found himself closing the program breathlessly, without even a hint of hesitation. He would have ctrl-alt-deleted that motherfucker if he could have, but deep down he knew he couldn't crash the program deliberately. There were too many questions that it brought up. Why was it doing things he didn't program it to? He shouldn't have been able to see inside the houses or interact with them. Why was Bingle even here? Where did the man come from and how did he see that man in the mirror?

And....and he could feel his hands shaking. Did he have what it took to correct any of this? Because he was not ever going to shut down this project, not even if it was scaring the living daylights out of him and stinking up his house with strangers.

Benedict had stumbled upon something more than just enjoyment or fun. He had stumbled upon power, real power. And through that, he had stumbled upon magic. Maybe real magic.

He opened up his program's source code and began skimming it lovingly, looking over the bones of his creation and wondering what he had somehow brought to life from the deep recesses of his mind as he programmed for all those years.

*****

Bingle could not have known that the overcast sky was typical for that time of year, and that the gloom it represented was the real face of most of Southern California's weather, despite what all the TV shows and movies depicted. Of course, he couldn't have known because he had never seen nor heard of those things before.

He felt naked without his swords, but it was a risk he didn't mind taking once in a while, especially since they were still so close at hand. He could count the number of steps it would take to reach them, either running or walking or a combination of both, and how many fewer steps it would take if he had to breaking through the window or the wall. He knew every variable and every possibility. It was unlikely that there would be a fight, so he just let it be.

Besides, the only fight he had in him right now was one that he was losing.

Bingle sat down on a low brick planter, heedless of the tall dead grass around him, and put his face in his hands. He could feel a tiny trickle of dampness along the rounded mound of the base of his thumb. It was foolish, hadn't he seen it coming? Hadn't he made that mistake already when he took Benedict, that other Benedict, the one on the great ship _Muntjac_ as his trusted friend and disciple?

And here he was trying to recreate the same mistake again with another Benedict. No, it was not possible. He could not do this anymore. It would be better to ask the wizard Benedict to send him back to his own time and place, beyond the end of the world, where he would roam for the rest of his life through those deep jungles and dark forests. In a way, Bingle almost longed for it, for that wildness and that emptiness, where the only man he could fight was himself.

There, at least he could hurt no one. Send no one to their doom. No longer lose anyone he let himself have the vaguest amount of feeling for. Not let that innate monster, that competitive beast that would not allow for failure or imperfection or feelings hurt anyone else.

After all, every time in the past where he thought he had done something awful, something unforgivable, he would manage to do worse the next time, something that made that first sin pale in comparison.

He sat silently for a long time.

And then he heard Benedict scream.

Three steps and a half, he turned the corner and with a diving leap grabbed his sword, the magic one. Unsheathed it in one quick motion as he dissipated some of his momentum with two quick rolls, and came up just before Benedict, slicing through the viscous black arrow that had been pointed at the boy's throat.

Bingle whipped his sword around, holding a defensive posture; later he would think it was a good call that he pulled the magic one; had it been a regular sword, it might not have cut through such dense magic. He could feel the tug of the black arrow as he sliced through it; it was both ethereal and solid at the same time. Had it gone through to Benedict, he knew it would have killed Benedict instantly, leaving no traces of a wound on his body. 

“Benedict Fenwick.” A small boy's voice, but it seethed in the sound of gnashing teeth and hissing breath. A shadow pooled, puddled, and straightened out into the grotesque likeness of a boy, melting out of blackness, not quite able to keep a stable form.

“Benedict Fenwick, you shall not escape Death.”

And without another word, Bingle thrust forward, one swift, decisive stab through the heart of the monster, feeling the energies pulse along his arm as he pushed the tip of the blade in through the inky darkness. It gave a weak scream, and the blackness exploded into a scatter of globs, the shadows crawling away into cracks and crevices.

Bingle scowled; he knew what that meant. It meant that it would regather its strength and come back for its target, no matter what.

White with fear, Benedict was curled up in his chair, as if it could somehow give him refuge. It rolled a little on the hardwood floor and stopped with a bump against Bingle's boot.

He offered Benedict his hand, and Benedict took it. Bingle could feel how icy Benedict's fingers were, and he clasped that hand firmly.

“Benedict. I...we cannot stay.” 

“Yeah...yeah, I think that's a good idea.”

Though he wanted to say more, Bingle suddenly closed his mouth, deciding against it, and they prepared to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

So they were off on a journey. A new kind of quest, but not like being in the retinue of the High King of Fillory at all. No, it was a lot more awkward and a lot less comfortable. Especially after Benedict stammeringly explained that he could not drive and that he had never learned how (not that it meant anything to Bingle; he had walked for the greater part of his life), thus they needed to secure transportation.

“I know where we're going,” Benedict announced. “I saw it on my computer. It's not too far away, just up in San Francisco.”

“All right.” Bingle trusted him. It was good to see Benedict somehow more decisive, as if the encounter with the shadow being had somehow steadied him. Benedict did things on his magic machines quickly, before leaving them with a roving sentry that bounced from corner to corner. At least, that was what Bingle thought it looked like.

They didn't take much with them, not even a change of clothes. Just a small smooth rectangular tablet that was neither made of neither stone nor steel that Benedict tucked into a padded case. Benedict rummaged briefly through a closet before pulling out a long smooth metal carrying case. He opened it and pulled out two swords, putting them aside. Bingle picked one up; it was lightweight and poorly balanced, and there was no edge on it.

“I took some fencing classes a long time ago. I thought it would help,” Benedict explained apologetically, embarrassed. “But um, here, you can put your swords in here and if they ask you're uh, um...you're a street performer.”

“Why must I lie?”

“It's complicated. Well, not that complicated. I just...you know, Homeland Security...”

“I don't know.”

“It's better not to,” Benedict sighed. “Just trust me, you'll have to put your swords away for now. And keep them put away, unless there's some huge emergency.”

Bingle slipped his swords in. Everything fit, and he closed the case with a snap, slinging it over his shoulder using the conveniently placed strap.

“I guess that's it.” Benedict said, with an exaggerated cheerfulness. “Well, let's go.”

“Yes.”

They headed to the front door, and as they did, Bingle noticed Benedict becoming more and more hesitant.

“Benedict?”

“I-I'm fine. Really.” He reached for the door and began to unlock it, but the lock had frozen in the frame and Bingle had to wrestle it open by sheer force.

“Benedict, when was the last time you went out?”

“I...I go out plenty! They leave my mail and my groceries and stuff on the side porch. I go out to get those.”

“All right.” But as they stepped outside, Benedict's hand locked around Bingle's wrist, and Bingle could feel a deep, shuddering tremor pass through Benedict. It was fear, pure animal fear.

“Benedict...” Bingle looked around. There was nothing that seemed dangerous. Houses were pressed fairly close together, there were no signs of walls or defensive mechanisms. On the contrary, there were open windows all around. A large vehicle passed by swiftly, but its body language suggested no threat, mostly apathy. There were no signs of war or villainy, and the few people he saw passed by were wielding not swords but tiny fluffy dogs, some on a lead and others in their arms.

Benedict forced himself to take a step, forced himself to smile as though nothing was wrong even though he had gone completely white and could barely keep from shaking. The effort it was taking him sent a little pang of pride and some other unknowable emotion through Bingle.

“Benedict.” He didn't make eye contact; it would have been too much for Benedict in this state.

“Yes?” The voice was tiny, quavery, and made something deep inside of Bingle soften.

“You must trust me. I will protect you. Always. I swear.” Bingle felt his voice thicken, and he stopped, closing his eyes for a second, trying to get his feelings under control. 

At that, Benedict's grip slacked a little, he was no longer gripping Bingle's wrist as if he meant to break it.

“Now, you must let go of my wrist if you want me to protect you. I need it free to fight. But you may take my arm,” Bingle offered his left arm in an unconsciously elegant gesture.

Benedict took his arm with both hands, clutching Bingle as if he were the last floating board from a shipwreck in the deep sea.

“I...I'm ready. I mean, I'll be fine. I mean, thank you-”

“I understand.” Bingle locked the door behind them with the keys that Benedict fumbled, and they took their first tentative steps into the wider world.

*****

Eliot had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling of being watched as he stepped through the portal. Back in Fillory it had been the middle of the night when he was woken from a deep sleep on the lumpy beach at the end of the world by the heavy stomps of Ember's hooves as they sunk into the sand.

He had just managed to fall asleep, still snotty and bleary-eyed from tears. Quentin was gone and sure, he had Josh and Poppy and Janet, but that wasn't the same thing. However much of an embarrassing dork Quentin seemed to others, he was still the first and best friend Eliot ever had. Awkward, sure, but loyal and patient and...

“What?” He couldn't help the nasty tone of voice; the injustice of Quentin's banishment still weighed heavily on him. “Jesus Christ, Ember, it's the middle of the fucking night.”

“Yes, child. So it is.” The sheep's eyes glowed eerily in the wan moonlight, like two great soulless mirrors. 

“Okay. Okay.” Eliot sat up, rubbing his eyes, acutely aware of the sand that was everywhere. It had basically gotten into everything, and the pain of grit in his eyes made his eyes water more, but he was awake. “Okay. So what is it that You need me for, Ember? Is someone blasting house music in the Brass City and You want me to get them to turn it down? Did some fucking talking animals fall into a well and need rescue? Did You want me to catch all the goddamn Pokemon?” He felt like he could have come up with some better ones had he enough sleep.

“No. It is Death.”

“Yeah, and I have had just about enough of that on this trip, thanks.” Eliot's lips twisted in a snarl. “I get it. People died...”

“No, you misunderstand. Death has left this world.” Ember snorted, his hooves pawing the sand, exposing darker sand underneath.

“Oooh, you mean Death. Right, like, no one can die until I get it back. Yeah, sure. I saw that episode of Family Guy...”

“It is a grave and perilous undertaking, child.”

“Sure.” Eliot sighed. He fumbled for his crown and donned it before standing up. Then he remembered his sword and picked that up too, unsheathing it with a whisk to hold the naked blade up in the moonlight. “I, High King Eliot, who has seen many episodes of The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy and understand wholly the ramifications of a world without death, will hereby bring Death back into Fillory so that our world may regain its natural state. And I shall give It a wedgie in the process. This I swear.”

Ember sounded slightly confused. “Then you understand the importance of Death...?”

“Yes. It's not like this is a new plot twist. Just tell me what I need to do.” Eliot sheathed his sword and leaned against it, while Ember filled him in on the details.

*****

So now, moments after his Ember briefing, he was walking through a giant mirror into a Victorian house that smelled like mothballs and patchouli. He looked around. The house was empty. There was a distinct feeling of being watched as he stepped into the world, but the feeling faded quickly, so much so that it made Eliot question if it had ever happened.

“Okaaaay...where am I now?” He went to the nearest window and peeked out. There were a line of cars parked along the sidewalk, mostly Civics and Camrys, but also a Benz and a Ford Fusion. A kid with a tall red-spiked mohawk skated by quickly on rollerblades and a fashionable couple walked by pushing a double stroller with tiny tow-headed twins. 

“Phew.” It looked like any major American city. “Guess it's a good thing I didn't end up in some horrible lizard world. Or Josh's fucking Teletubbies.” Eliot went into the kitchen, and picked up a pile of papers next to the phone. A cable tv bill and some other utilities. 

“Okay, that makes sense. San Francisco. Poppy's house. Though...girlfriend _paid_ to see the Twilight sequel On Demand? That is just wrong on too many levels...” He tossed down the bills with a sigh. “Okay. Must find Death. But first...not being filthy would be an improvement.” He was sure Poppy wouldn't mind. He set the crown and the sword down and headed upstairs. First a shower, then a nap in a real bed that didn't move because the ocean was underneath it, and then he'd find Death and take it home. Inbetween, maybe a drink and some Vietnamese food.

Good plan. He skipped up the stairs by twos and hoped Poppy had some good body wash.

*****

Benedict woke with a sharp intake of breath as the train stopped. He was warm and comfortable, and sleeping on something warm that smelled like shampoo and dusty clothes and metal...

He straightened up quickly when he realized he had been sleeping against Bingle's shoulder. But Bingle didn't seem to mind. “Uh...Bingle. Where are we?”

“I am not familiar with the local geography, but it appears that we are merely at a rest stop and not at our destination.” Bingle scanned the crowd outside the train lazily, seemingly unimpressed with what he saw. 

“Oh.” Benedict looked around and saw the signs. “San Luis Obispo. Shit, we haven't gone that far at all.”

Bingle was about to say something, but then a brisk, professional woman's voice came over the intercom. “Attention all passengers. There is an obstruction on the rail ahead. Please disembark the train with all your belongings and assemble at the ticket counter for further instructions.”

Groans all around, and in the back of the train, some businessman type was complaining loudly about the service and/or lack thereof. Benedict sighed.

Bingle's eyes darkened. Whatever it was, it was not allowing them to find their destination so easily. He stood up in a swift motion, pulling Benedict with him.

Hours later, after a grueling bus journey that mostly comprised of being stuck in traffic and staring at the dry brown hills, cows, and farm billboards with colorful oversized cartoon farmers and produce, the bus broke down. They were somewhere between Salinas and Gilroy, out in essentially cow pasture and farmland, about a mile from the nearest town.

Bingle was loathe to wake Benedict; he felt like the boy needed his sleep. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he had a sickly complexion that sometimes made Bingle think the boy was already on the verge of death anyway without anyone's help. But the sudden jerk of the bus as the driver tried to get it going again woke Benedict up.

“Again?” Benedict blinked. Outside, the sun was starting to set.

“Again.” Bingle took Benedict's hand, and Benedict didn't seem to mind. “Let's go. This time we'll make our own way.”

As they stepped out of the bus, Bingle could feel Benedict tense. Outside it was a bright, hot day, the last gasp of summer shining down on green fields and sun-baked hills. Ignoring the driver, Bingle hopped down lightly and helped Benedict down, putting a firm and comforting arm around Benedict's shoulders. Benedict's shaking perceptibly lessened, and he looked around apprehensively.

“Now what?”

“We walk.” Benedict followed the road that headed northbound and began to walk, bootheels crunching through the gravel.

They walked in silence for a long time. Benedict fiddled with the straps on his backpack as they walked, and he thought that he couldn't really remember the last time he went on such a long walk, much less along a major highway.

“So uh, this is the 101, Bingle. They name the roads here, sometimes with numbers. Helps keeps track of things.”

“Interesting. Orderly.” Bingle looked around appreciatively. “What kind of magic makes the roads so smooth?”

“Uh, Caltrans? I mean, they don't really use magic. Just machines and a bunch of guys with orange vests and orange traffic cones.”

Bingle looked thoughtfully at the road, and Benedict giggled a little, imagining what Bingle saw in his mind's eye. “Okay, now you tell me something about Fillory.”

“Fillory? Well, I was born there. And I lived almost all my life there. Until a few days ago.” Bingle said hesitantly, not sure what Benedict would be interested in. “And there are talking animals and clock-trees and...”

“Yeah, I read the books. I mean, tell me something I wouldn't know from the books.”

“I didn't know there were books. And I wouldn't know what you wouldn't know.” Bingle gave Benedict a little squeeze, comfortable and companionable. “Compared to you I know very little.”

“Oh, come on. I saw the way you moved back at the house,” Benedict's eyes glowed with an interest and excitement that Bingle hadn't seen in the entire time they had been together. “It was like, pow! And the sword! Zing!”

“Maybe so, but moving is not the same as knowing.”

“Well, you'd have to know your body for those movements to work right, right?”

“I suppose you have a point.” Bingle could feel something inside of him unclench. This was the Benedict he remembered, the boy that clung to the railing of the forecastle as the wind streamed through his black hair, bright-eyed with curiosity, busy arguing and correcting and...

A growling noise brought Bingle back to reality. “You're hungry, aren't you?” 

“You started it. Your stomach's been growling for hours.” Benedict poked him a little, and winced when his finger ran into a hard wall of abdominal muscle. 

“Oh. I hadn't noticed.” Bingle frowned deeper. He couldn't really remember the last time he ate. How long had it been exactly? It had to have been at least more than a day, if he no longer felt hunger pains.

“Hey, look. There's a bar. Let's go and see if we can get some food.” Benedict shrugged Bingle's arm off and began loping toward a roadside strip mall. “Come on!”

Bingle paused for a moment, feeling slightly strange, and then he realized that it was the first time since they walked out the door that Benedict had let go of him. Surprised, he followed, hot on Benedict's heels.

 

The restaurant was more like a bar with pretensions, or at least that's how Benedict described it. And then Benedict had softly, in whispers, explained to Bingle the finer points of false identities and age laws. Bingle thought it all rather silly. But it was a nice establishment, something that Bingle considered rather fancy, though not up to the stuff of the Fillory court. Muted interior, gentle lighting, elegant fixtures, and quiet, unobtrusive servants. 

“So what do you like to eat, Bingle?” Benedict asked. 

“I'm not particular, and I'm not accustomed to your customs. I trust you to find something I can digest.”

Benedict scanned the menu with deep scrutiny. “Okay, do you eat meat? Do you follow any dietary laws? Are you allergic to anything? Shellfish, peanuts, dairy...tree nuts? Gluten? Bingle, can you have gluten?” 

Bingle blinked at the barrage of questions. “I have no...allergics to anything and I had not known there were laws for food. And as for meat, yes, I do eat that.”

“Okay, okay...let's try this. I hope you like it.” Benedict waved the server over and ordered for them, pointing at the menu and asking a lot of questions before giving a lot of orders. Wine was poured and the food came quickly after that, bread first, then salads and soup. But before Bingle began to eat, he paused. 

“Forgive me, Benedict. But...you must know that I have no money to contribute, at least no money that your world recognizes-”

“Don't worry about it. I've got a trust fund I made for myself.” Benedict grinned. “And I'm also my own venture capitalist. I know I don't look like much, but believe me, I can take care of all this and then some. Look, just eat. You saved my life. That's worth more than a million of these dinners.”

Bingle nodded in understand and began to eat, slowly and steadily. He was wondering if this light supper of bread and vegetables was the fashion of this place until there was great pomp and ceremony as the servers came with a large cast iron plate upon which was a large sizzling lump of seared meat.

Benedict beamed as they set it on the table between the two.

Bingle met his eye, and Benedict could see the faintest hint of a smile. 

*****

Benedict decided that despite or perhaps because his slender build, Bingle ate like a skinny-ass Japanese hotdog eating champion. The larger part of a large baked potato with cheese and broccoli, soup, salad, bread, french fries, and something like 28 ounces of a 40 ounce steak...it wasn't so much that Bingle ate it as destroyed it. It was clear that it had been a while since Bingle had eaten anything; the man fell to it in a methodical yet ravenous way, even gnawing on the charred bone. Then he had Benedict order him some fruit and a slice of pie with ice cream. It was a little overwhelming at the end.

Or maybe it was just the glass of wine Benedict had with dinner. Light-headed and almost giddy with joy, Benedict paid and tipped handsomely. As they walked out of the restaurant into the starry night, Benedict realized that it had been a very long time since he had eaten something that wasn't delivered or reheated from frozen in a microwave. And it had been even longer since he had eaten in the company of another person.

“Hey, Bingle.” Benedict smiled at Bingle. “I'm too tired to walk. Food coma. Let's get a room around here and crash out for the night. We can figure it out in the morning.”

“Certainly.” And they walked to what seemed to be a seedy roadside motel but turned out to have been converted into a kitschy, ironic bed and breakfast, catering to hip tourists that came for the Googie architecture and the proximity to the world of The Grapes of Wrath.

Not having actually rented any hotel rooms before, Benedict just told the clerk to surprise him. The clerk had given him and Bingle a knowing wink, before putting them in what Benedict blushingly realized was some sort of newlywed suite. 

Bingle didn't seem to notice or mind that the bed was one giant heart-shaped bed with pink quilting and lace-trimmed pillows.

“We must rest while we get the chance.” Bingle said as he pulled off his boots. He began to strip down, and it made Benedict freak out for just one tiny moment until he realized that Bingle had only pulled off the shirt and loosened the top button of his jeans.

“Sure.” Benedict kept his clothes on, but he unpacked his laptop and kicked off his sneakers, clambering onto the bed.

“Benedict, what is this?” Bingle pointed to a metal plate in the wall by the bed. “Is this to commemorate this bed?”

Benedict blushed furiously. “N-no, nothing's being commemorated.” He could feel inappropriate giggles welling up in his stomach, and he took a deep breath to control himself. “That's the instructions for the Magic Fingers.”

“Magic...Fingers...? You mean...a spell?”

“No, it's just some lame thing I've only seen in cartoons. Look, sit on the bed.” And then immediately Benedict regretted it as he had to lean over Bingle to shove in two dollars worth of quarters into the slot in the wall.

“Okay,” Benedict drew back, putting his arms firmly around security brick that was his laptop. “Now hit the red button.”

Bingle startled as the bed began to vibrate. “So this is...the Magic Fingers. I have never seen nor felt the like.”

“It's just a novelty thing. Supposed to feel good. Lie down.”

They laid down, feet pointing toward the point of the heart so their legs didn't dangle off. “F-f-f-feels kinda tickly...”

“Y-yes.” Even Bingle's low flat voice had a tremor in it from the vibrations, and it made Benedict laugh. “It's certainly unusual.”

It wasn't long before the vibrations stopped. Bingle's eyes were already closed, and Benedict looked at him for a moment, at the angled contours of his muscles, at the long dark eyelashes that seemed almost demure in repose. Bingle's face seemed more troubled in sleep, grim, as if he could not escape his problems even when he was unconscious.

He got up and found an extra blanket in the closet, unfolded it, and tossed it over Bingle, who didn't move.

Deep asleep. Just like he should be. Benedict looked at the time; it was just eleven. He couldn't remember a time when he got to bed before midnight. He yawned and booted up his computer, leaning back against a pile of pillows, the lace tickling his elbows. He was tired, but not tired enough to really rest, so he thought he would check in and do some work.

He logged into his VPN and ran his simulation program on his computer. There was a little lag but it wasn't much, not enough to make a real difference in performance but it was perceivable. This time he continued scanning around the real world model again, and moved around. Surprisingly, more than just San Francisco and Los Angeles showed up in the regional view; this time, as he zoomed around the big cities, he noticed that he could go outside of them, as if the program had automatically generated the world around them.

Out of curiosity, he skimmed down to where they approximately were. There was the motel, in all its mid 20th century splendor. All the curtains were drawn, save for one room. He paused, looking at the simulation curiously. Through the open window, he could just barely see a strange swirling, like looking into the reflection of water in a mirror, but it was coming from a closet...

There was a knock at the door. Immediately, Bingle was awake and reaching for his swords, throwing off the blanket in one graceful motion that was almost thrilling.

“Who is it?” Benedict said loudly, but there was no answer, only more knocking.

“Don't.” Bingle snapped. “Don't answer it.” His voice was a flat whisper, barely audible.

“It's probably just room service or the maid or something,” Benedict said, swinging off the bed. “I mean, we haven't seen that thing all-

The knocking came back. But this time it came from the closed door of the bathroom.

“Get your shoes on,” Bingle pulled on his own boots with a swift motion, not bothering with the shirt. “We're going.”

The knocking came again, and then the doorknob began to rattle, as if something without hands was trying to open it.

“Fuuuuuuck...” Frozen with fear, Benedict could only grip his computer tighter. Something blacker than night seemed to seep around the edges of the door.

Without a word, Bingle grabbed him and ran for it, out into the rapidly chilling night.

It was like the cold snapped Benedict back into himself, as if he was some kind of supercomputer that only worked when his brain was chilled. Suddenly everything became very clear and logical.

“Wait, I know where we gotta go.” Benedict skidded to a halt and grabbed Bingle, turning them toward where he had seen the portal. “This way.”

They ran, the ground cold beneath Benedict's socked feet, and behind them Benedict could hear the child's voice, not exactly words but just the sound of whispers and chatter all stacked up with a noise that was too much like gnashing teeth. The sound echoed down the hallways and it seemed almost impossible to determine where it was coming from.

Around the corner and down the stairs, along the inner corridor of the motel and past the pool, then down and around the other side. The window in real life was closed, and the door locked.

“Shit. Shit, shit...” And before Benedict could say 'shit' again, Bingle knocked down the door with a positively bone-snapping kick.

“Whoa! Bingle!”

“Let's go,” Bingle's flat voice was a counterpoint to the duet of screams that emerged from the darkened hotel room. As Benedict ran in after Bingle, pointing them to the closet, he saw a quick flash of a naked middle-aged couple, apparently interrupted mid-lovemaking. With no time to stare or blush or be afraid, he grabbed Bingle's hand and they leapt into and through the closet.

*****

It was a good shower, but not quite like those Fillorian baths with his various and many bath attendants, bubbly bath scents, and massaging hands. Eliot yawned, fluffy towel wrapped around his waist. He couldn't manage the thought of getting back into his filthy Fillory clothes, and was honestly trying to decide if he had it in him to search the back of Poppy's closet for some fat jeans or sweats that might fit him. In the end, he had shoved most of the Fillorian clothes into the fancy European combination washer-dryer, hoping that they were not dry-clean only. By the time he got up they'd be clean, and he'd resume questing.

But questing seemed like too much trouble right now. He found where Poppy kept her liquor and poured himself a big double martini, with what was basically a small handful of olives, and curled up on the immaculately-made bed.

He wondered where Quentin was, and if there was any way to call him. But it wasn't like they had some kind of magical equivalent of a pager. He decided that Fergus must have been too busy trying to figure out a new and unbeatable magic dueling technique to bother with a pager. 

No, he would have to think of it himself. “Eliot's Enchanted Pager. Not enough alliteration. Waugh's Wet Willy. No, then it'd actually have to be a magical wet willy.” He would have to work on it, when he was back in Fillory.

For now, he closed his eyes and wondered where Quentin was. Certainly on the other side of the country; the boy didn't seem to believe in anything west of the Mississippi as either existing or mattering. Maybe back in the city again. Maybe back in Brakebills. He tried to imagine what he would choose if he were Quentin.

“Suicide?” But then he felt a little sick even thinking of it jokingly, so he took a gulp of his drink and let the heat of it melt away some of his anxieties.

No, Quentin was a tough little guy. He would manage somehow. Just like Eliot would manage without him.

All of a sudden, Eliot felt very lonely and very empty. He had never had a committed relationship, not until Fillory. And now he realized that like all serious relationships, it was getting in the way of his friends. 

“Me and Fillory...it's complicated. Co-dependent.” He tried to smile to himself, to cheer himself up but neither the olives nor the gin seemed to help. Where was Quentin when you needed someone to hear a good joke?

Tears prickled Eliot's eyes. No matter how much he loved Quentin, he knew he would always choose Fillory first. And if that made him a selfish bastard...

Then again, Quentin would understand. After all, he'd make that choice too, wouldn't he?

“Sentimental dope,” Eliot said to himself under his breath, and then he angrily scrubbed at the tears that would not stop slowly welling from his eyes.

*****

“Oh...oh man.” Benedict's first impression was of a place that was very cold and very wet. It was dark too, and he shivered. He heard the sound of a car going by and realized they were standing in an alley behind a bar. He could hear the sound of billiards and low thumping music through the brick walls.

“You okay, Bingle?”

“Of course.” Bingle stayed close to Benedict. Even in the low light, Benedict could tell that Bingle's eyes were wary and that he had moved unconsciously into a defensive stance.

“What should we do now? Where are we?”

“I don't know.” And those words sent a little chill down Benedict's spine. But there was a certain scrappy hopefulness in the way Bingle said it, as though he were in the process of formulating a plan.

“First order of business: let's get out of this stupid alley.” And Benedict decisively walked out, as if his socks weren't soaked through and almost black with grime, and as if Bingle wasn't standing around without his shirt on. No big deal, just a normal day. 

The bar was called the Genie's Lamp, and it had a neon sign of a cartoon lady in veils, doing a wiggly hip dance as she emanated from a lamp. To Benedict, it looked like it had been made in the 60s or 70s, and as they walked in, it sure seemed that the bar had been frozen in time since, with the harvest gold wall-to-wall carpeting and the funky macrame pieces on the walls. He felt like he had walked into someone's grandpa's house. There was a pool table, a juke box, and some booths, but they were all filled with customers.

Benedict made a beeline for the bar, figuring he could set up there and check to see where they could go next. And maybe get a drink; even though he really didn't drink, it seemed like the right thing to do after almost dying.

He sat down, and the bartender came by, a giant of a woman in a long white dress. Her arms looked about a few inches bigger in circumference than Benedict's legs, and it wasn't all fat.

She was smoking an e-cigarette that made the bar area smell like apples and cloves, scenting the general bar area into a giant artificial pie. No wonder no one hung out at the bar. She had also done up her eyes with a lot of dark eyeshadow and her hair was piled up in a beehive. The whole effect was like a giant Liz-Taylor-as-Cleopatra-the-60s-housewife. 

She looked them over carefully, especially Bingle, her eyes lingering on his muscled torso.

“Well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Sorry, we just...got caught out. Mind if we sit here for a few? I can pay.”

“I'm sure you can, little boy.” There was a faint accent to her words but Benedict couldn't place it. “But didn't you read the sign? 'No shoes, no shirt, no service?'”

Benedict shrugged, feigning carelessness even as his heart pounded. “Nope, didn't notice.”

She leaned in close, her thin red lips almost brushing Benedict's ear and he almost squirmed away but her voice kept him still. “I suppose you're here for the other side of the door, hmm?” 

Somehow Bingle had heard, and was moving closer. “Yes, m'lady. If you please, we would like to pass through.”

“No entry without payment. I can take payment in kind though,” she smiled, her eyes lingering on Bingle.

Benedict pulled out his credit card. “How about this?”

“Don't be silly. That won't buy shit.” The way she said it, sheeet, as if the vowel was drawn out long. Benedict wondered if she was some kind of French.

Bingle reached into his pockets and pulled something out. It was a tiny golden coin, barely the size of his thumbnail. 

“Will this suffice?” The lady's eyes flashed, and Benedict thought he saw a hint of blue in the dark eyes, but it was not the blue of eyes or of the sky or water. It was the translucent blue of hot flames.

“Oh, that will pay for even a round trip.” She laughed, and took the coin, tucking it into her voluminous bosom. “Let's go.” 

She led them to a back room behind the bar, and the close dark wooden walls, the scent of smoke and spices, made Benedict a little nervous. Bingle said nothing, but gave Benedict's fingers a reassuring squeeze, and Benedict let out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding.

She led them to a huge old furnace that had obviously been out of service for decades. The new one was sitting right beside it, a compact heating unit that hummed softly in the room.

“All right, just through here.” The door was unusually massive, but she swung it open like it weighed nothing. It creaked like mad and flecks of rust spilled out as the door opened.

“Mind the gap,” she said, voice bored, and they stepped through to the other side. Benedict sneaked a glance back and saw a tiny glimpse of her turning her back to them, puffing away at her e-cigarette. From this angle, he realized that her beehive of black hair was really dark flames, licking at her neck and face.


	3. Chapter 3

Eliot woke in a tangle of half-naked limbs, his breath almost knocked out of him. Before he could react, he found himself pinned to the bed by strong, lightly muscled arms. Strong, familiar arms...

“Don't move,” Bingle growled under his breath. It was just dark enough to make Eliot realize that Bingle must not have recognized him. Without meaning to, Eliot could feel his cock harden.

“Uh...holy shit, Bingle? Is that you? It's me, Eliot.” Eliot's mind whirled for a moment, trying to figure out where Bingle could have come from, and then he looked up over Bingle's shoulder and realized that there was a mirror over the bed.

A freaking mirror. He was going to have to have a very long, very serious talk with Poppy. Then he imagined Josh's pale, chubby body and decided against it. No, this was just too fucking weird and he did not really want to know.

“Your Majesty.” Bingle looked honestly shocked and quickly let Eliot go, though he didn't immediately get up off of Eliot, which Eliot highly appreciated. The feel of Bingle's legs tangled with his own reminded him of that one night on board the _Muntjac_...well, it was really more than just one night, like a series of 'that one night' spread out over--

He heard another voice and froze. “Wait, Benedict? Benedict?!” Eliot gasped. 

“Uh, yeah?” 

Reluctantly, Eliot wiggled out from under Bingle and clicked on the bedside lamp. It was Benedict in the flesh, though pale and skinny, the way Eliot remembered Benedict looking in the castle, not the way he remembered from aboard the _Muntjac_ , muscular and sun-browned. This Benedict seemed a little older than the one he knew, and he clutched a laptop to his chest as if it were a life preserver. He had no shoes on but a pair of dirty, wet socks, and Bingle was shirtless, wearing a pair of tattered jeans and carrying what looked like a giant pool cue case, except Eliot guessed that it was probably packed with swords.

As for Eliot himself, the towel had apparently slipped off in the struggle. He casually covered himself before the others noticed.

“So like, why does everyone seem to know my name?” Benedict's voice was a little different, and Eliot realized that it was the California accent and slang that was throwing him.

“Well. Let's begin with introductions. I'm Eliot, and I'm the High King of Fillory.” Eliot extended his hand and received a slightly limp and hesitant handshake. “This is Bingle, loyal subject and formerly the bodyguard and traveling companion of the kings and queens, or whatever you call it.”

“Swordsman,” Bingle added.

“Yes, that. Anyway...I'm from around here. I mean, our world. The United States.” Eliot waved his hand absently, as if that would explain everything. “But I've been king for a few years in Fillory now. I met Bingle through a tournament. We ended up going on a big quest together. Anyway, we...well, we knew you. Although it's probably more accurate to say that we knew an alternate dimension version of you. Except...”

“Except he died, right?” Benedict sat back, peeling off his socks and tossing them to the floor.

“Exactly. And...excuse me, what do you think you're doing? What were you, born in a barn? Goodness, take those downstairs into the laundry room. It's just past the kitchen.”

Blushing, Benedict got up to retrieve his socks and stomped out the room like so much sullen teenager.

While he was busy, Eliot caught Bingle's eye. “Long time no see, stranger. How did you get here? I didn't even know that was possible.”

“It was a portal, your Majesty.” Bingle frowned his little thinking frown, and it reminded Eliot of some pretty fun times, acrobatically fun times. Eliot had to shake his head a little to refocus. 

“A portal. And it took you...”

“To him.” Bingle was too dark to show a blush, but it was obvious that he was a little ill at ease with himself, almost surprisingly shy.

“Why, Bing. You sly dog. I never knew.” Eliot grinned. “Really? Benedict?”

Bingle nodded, embarrassed.

“You never said anything. Or...did anything. I mean, I don't mean to pry, but I think I would have known.” Most of their encounters had happened while Benedict was around; as far as Eliot had known Bingle's relationship to Benedict had been as just a friend, a mentor maybe, but not much more than that.

“Back then, I didn't want to say anything. Not...not after the dead seas.” Bingle sighed.

“The dead seas?”

“That place where the sea did not move. Where I received the magic sword for trade in kind. I didn't think it was something I would miss but then...I didn't know better. I couldn't have foreseen it. Fate. She's a cruel mistress.” Bingle smiled sadly. 

“What did you give up?”

Bingle shook his head. “I cannot exactly-”

And just then Benedict came back, with a two bottles of chilled water from the fridge and a green tea Snapple which he handed to Bingle, who seemed to have no trouble navigating the packaging. Eliot wondered what they had been up to since Bingle came to Earth. “Hey, sorry about raiding your fridge. I'm just real thirsty.”

Eliot waved it off. “It's fine. Not my fridge anyway. Here, toss me one of those.”

They sat and drank in silence. Eliot was genuinely surprised at the revelation, and had a feeling that even now Benedict didn't know. In fact, he was sure that perhaps up until Eliot asked him directly, Bingle might not even have known himself.

It was too cute, and it made him smile, playing matchmaker to the most unlikely and oddly well-suited couple he had seen in ages.

“There is a matter that I must address to you, your Majesty. About the circumstances of my arrival.”

“Please. Do tell.” It was like the weirdest slumber party Eliot had ever been to, including the one with the industrial gallon of lube and the kiddie wading pool filled with jello shots. Everyone sitting on the big bed, chatting about their crazy fantasy magic quest experiences. Well, not quite everyone; Benedict had made a sort of impromptu seat on a cedar chest at the foot of the bed and this weirdly American version of Benedict didn't seem to have much questing experiences beyond ones that involved a D20, 2-liters of Mountain Dew, and a bunch of Cheetos.

“Majesty, a dark and powerful creature attacked Benedict earlier today. We have journeyed far in search of refuge. It has great power, but it seems to be weak in this world, as if unable to muster full strength. But it can create barriers in this world and inconveniences that cannot be crossed. And...it tried to killed Benedict with an arrow made of darkness.” Bingle said those last few words carefully, as if uncomfortable saying them out-loud.

“Funny thing, Bing, my man. That's actually why I'm here.” Eliot smiled brightly. He caught up his crown and sword. Donned the crown in a rakish tilt with one hand and the other he raised over his head in a bravado pose, too lazy to actually unsheathe it. “I swear that I will protect you two from certain death, etc.”

“Death? You mean, you'll stop it from trying to kill me?” Benedict looked uncomfortable.

“Yeah, that, and it's actually Death. As in, the manifestation thereof. You know, scythe and black hoodie and all, but maybe not exactly like that because it's from Fillory. Don't know what their incarnation of Death looks like. But it just ran away to here recently. I have absolutely no idea how it got out, but apparently it needs to go back where it came from. I'm basically on a quest from Ember.” Eliot could barely hold a straight face as he said that last part; he felt like he sounded like some 23 year old bro who was bragging about his gym prowess, only with unicorns and rainbows and magic swords instead of protein shakes and ab blasting.

“How? I mean...really?”

“It's troublesome but not particularly difficult, not for the likes of me at least. Apparently it'll even obey the high king, to a degree. Also, I have this magic ring that Ember gave me.” He held up his right hand, the ring glittered blackly on his forefinger, the band of magical metal topped with a jeweled orb. 

Benedict looked at the ring and the crown and the sword thoughtfully for a moment, and then sighed. “I...I think I know what might have done it.”

“Really?” Eliot looked at him skeptically. “Are you...are you a magician? Like one of those backalley hedge witches that Q- er, that I heard about?”

“Uh, no. At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not. It's...kind of dumb.”

“Don't make me have to coax it out of you. I can be very convincing,” Eliot said with a sarcastic tone of menace, and it made Benedict giggle and relax a little.

“Okay. So, I'm really into maps and programming. And a couple years ago I started this project where I made a virtual world program where you can take a map of a place...like an imaginary place, and make it look totally real. Like, my best design so far is Fillory. I based it off the maps in the books.” Benedict went from hesitant and nervous to fully bright-eyed and passionate, and immediately Eliot could see what Bingle saw in the boy. “I was messing around in it when um, when Bingle showed up.”

“I followed the square moon, and it led me to him,” Bingle agreed, and it took a minute for Eliot to realize that he must have meant the light from the monitor, shining into Fillory.

“Maybe...maybe that's how Death snuck out,” Benedict offered. “The program did some weird stuff and crashed after Bingle came through. But I don't know what time that happened, so something could have happened in between Bingle coming over and the computer crashing.”

Beside him, Eliot could see Bingle tense up at the words even as Benedict went on about his program. The dark look in Bingle's eyes...Eliot had seen that look more than once in the past when talking to Quentin. That was the look of a man who blamed himself for things that were not his fault and that were out of his control.

“Sorry for cutting you off, Benedict, but...may I have a word alone? With him?” Eliot pointed to Bingle. “Fillory business, it's all very hush-hush. You understand.. Anyway, I think there's an X-box downstairs if you don't mind. Give us a few minutes.”

“Uh...sure.” Confused, Benedict grabbed his things and clattered down the stairs. 

When it was quiet, Eliot caught Bingle's slender shoulder, and gave him a little shake.

“Bing. It is not your fault. Repeat after me, 'It is not my fault.'”

Bingle had a cold, hard, half-dead look in his eye that Eliot didn't like. He set his other hand on Bingle's other shoulder, and turned Bingle toward him.

“Stop running away for a minute, okay? You can't just...you can't just turn off your feelings because of something you don't like. You...must face this, Bingle. And you're one of the bravest, strongest men I've ever met, so you don't have any excuses.”

Bingle was tense under Eliot's hand, so tense he almost trembled like a taut string, but he didn't try to push Eliot off or break his arm or whatever semi-psychotic possibly clinically depressed swordsmen did. Instead, he sighed and bowed his head deeply. From here, Eliot could only see his dark, close-shorn hair. He remembered running his fingers through it; it had been surprisingly soft, like the swordsman's lips.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Eliot heard the tiny soft sound of a tear falling onto the bedspread.

“Bingle...” Eliot didn't let go, but he also didn't draw him closer.

“I...I put him in danger. Again.”

“You didn't mean to.”

“That doesn't excuse it.”

“Of course it does. I mean...from what I can figure out, it's more that his program is secretly magic and you just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Look, I know you don't believe me but you must try to trust me on this. As far as we know, if you hadn't come through, perhaps Death wouldn't have escaped. But then again, perhaps Death would have escaped anyway, and if you weren't already here to protect him, that kid would be...”

Bingle's breath caught. “No. Don't...don't say it.”

“I'm sorry. I just...want you to know that you did more for him than anyone else I ever saw. Back there and here too. Whatever you want to believe, I want you to know that it was never your fault that he died, and it's not your fault that he's in danger now. So...quit blaming yourself.”

“I...I will try.” Bingle sniffled, and wiped at his eyes with his sword-calloused hands. It was a painful sight, one that tugged at Eliot's heart. He gave Bingle a careful, light embrace, and kissed him on the cheek. 

“You're going to be okay, Bing. You and Benedict both. I know, it's hard to believe I can be much of a fighter, but I'm pretty good at what I do. So trust me. This is going to have a happy ending for once.”

Bingle didn't quite smile, but his shoulders untensed, and it seemed as though a great weight had been lifted from him.

“Why don't you go talk to him? I'm going to set up a ward on the house now that I know what we're up against.” And Eliot got up, with a long yawning stretch. 

Bingle looked up at him appreciatively, and Eliot suddenly realized he was naked, the towel having long slid off onto the floor.

“So exactly when were you going to tell me that I was naked?” He arched an eyebrow at Bingle whose mouth moved into a tiny dark secretive grin.

“It didn't occur to me. Majesty.” Bingle gave a deep, courtly bow, and at the very bottom of it he picked up Eliot's towel and handed it over.

“Oh, Bing. Don't ever change.” 

Bingle bowed, and disappeared. Eliot could hear his footsteps, much lighter than Benedict's despite the boots, as they descended the stair.

*****

Benedict was asleep on the couch when Bingle came downstairs. He found a quilted throw hanging on a rocking chair and draped it over Benedict, tucking him in gently.

It was quiet, but for the ticking of the clocks, a tiny symphony of precise wooden and metal clicks that didn't quite line up completely together. It gave Bingle a sense of uneasiness, but the feeling passed quickly. That was just a bad memory from another time and another place, far far away. Outside, the soft sound of cars passing by was almost like the rushing of wind or water, and once in a while a stray beam of light crossed the heavily draped windows, and Bingle could see light seeping through the velvet curtains.

He sat down, leaning against the couch by Benedict's side, opened the sword case, and set his swords by his hands where they were ready at hand.

“I wanted to talk to you, Benedict,” Bingle's voice was a bare whisper, so softly that he could barely hear it himself.

Benedict didn't stir, his breathing even and calm.

“There's a story I've always wanted to tell you but never could. It's about a fool with a sword.” Bingle hugged his knees, resting his chin on his arms. “This fool was restless from birth, and from a young age he searched the world far and wide, learning because he wanted to be the world's greatest swordsman, no matter the price. But he made a lot of mistakes on the way, bad mistakes. Mistakes that he is still paying for.

“This fool broke many swords. Bad swords, good swords...sometimes even great swords. It didn't matter as long as he won, because there were always more just around the corner.

“Then one day, this fool came to a place of stagnation...a place of death. And in that place, the sea where nothing moved, he was offered a sword that would not break. A sword that he could always have, a sword that would defeat his enemies, a sword that was magic. But he had to leave something behind.

“The fool couldn't immediately think of anything he could willingly leave behind. For he owned little and carried nothing, but his swords and the clothes on his back. Though he was a companion to kings and queens, he had no more than a common beggar.

“And he could not leave behind things that he valued, like his hands or his skills or his feet or his eyes So...the fool...” 

Bingle felt his breath catch in his throat, as if he couldn't say anything. But he had to. It was the only way. He took a deep breath.

“So...so the fool gave the sea what he never had or used anyway. The fool promised that the sea could have his love.

“That fool didn't know yet, but he...there were already feelings that he had. Feelings that he did not know were possible and had thus overlooked. But he had given the sea his love already, before he knew anything. Because that was something that the fool would do. It was something that the fool could not stray from. Being foolish.

“So the moment the fool...began to realize that he...that he...loved...” And that word was even smaller than Bingle could whisper, it was barely a breath between his lips, as if he could not say the words out loud without calling down plagues and calamities.

“That was when the sea took back what he had promised, and took his love's blood, and took his love's life. And the sword that he had given his love, a token of his dedication...well, the sea took that too. There was nothing left of his love after the sea was done.”

Bingle closed his eyes, and it was as if he was too dry for tears. Only regrets were left, a lifetime consigned to regrets and remorse for a potential that would be forever lost and unknowable.

“So the fool went over the wall to other side of the world to die. But then...he didn't. And now the fool...now...”

Benedict was still asleep. Bingle sighed and hugged his knees. It wasn't cold, but he felt like he could never get warm again.

Bingle closed his eyes and listened to the ticking of the not-quite-synchronous clocks.


	4. Chapter 4

Eliot woke up in the morning to find that the wards hadn't been tripped, and that he was alone in the big bed.

“Worst. Sleepover. Ever,” he pronounced, as he stumbled out of bed. Retrieving his clothes from the machine, he found them Downy-soft and completely clean. Modern technology 1, Fillorian clothes 1. It was a good combination and it cheered him up, until he realized that there was absolutely no food in the house unless Clif bars counted as food, which Eliot surely did not.

He quickly decided on a plan of action, and it involved brunch and getting Bingle some decent pants, because there was no way that those awkward dad jeans could do Bingle's ass any justice. That, and the boy needed shoes. He was Eliot, High King of Fillory, and he would set things to right. Right after breakfast.

“Oh, what would they do without me?” Eliot grinned his snaggle-toothed grin to himself, and went to find something to make them almost decent.

Bingle ended up in a novelty over-sized Peanuts shirt that Eliot guessed Poppy might have worn as a nightgown, and Benedict somehow managed to mash his toes into a pair of yellow polka-dot galoshes. Strangely, once they were out on the sidewalk in the city, they didn't seem too out of place. Eliot noticed that Benedict had a tendency to cling to Bingle once outside, which he found adorable. 

“First order of business,” Eliot called out, as if he was still holding court in the great hall at Castle Whitespire, “is that we can hardly do business with you two looking like refugees from the foreign Salvation Army wars. Let's get you some real clothes.”

A walk of a few blocks found them at a high-end vintage clothes boutique, and Eliot ducked in, dragging the awkward and reluctant two after him. Quickly and with the help of a not less than three store clerks, Eliot managed to outfit the two in a way that he deemed almost passable. He even picked up a giant ironic hippie necklace for Janet made out of ratty feathers and turquoise and what looked like glass turds. The perfect souvenir.

Benedict turned out to be a bigger project than Eliot had guessed, like finding a house that you knew needed a couple repairs and a new coat of paint but then realizing that it was a rat-infested deathtrap that needed to be burned down to the ground because repairs would just be patching bad patches on top of bad patches.

Eliot had made Benedict “donate” his hole-ridden Dragonforce t-shirt into the trash, and replaced it with a vintage Pac-Man shirt. Black high-top sneakers, skinny jeans, and a slim-tailored gray jacket to complete the look, because as Eliot proclaimed, “It gets chilly in the city.” Though Eliot encountered some stiff resistance at first, Benedict ended up grateful and gracious, sneaking glances at himself in the boutique's scattered mirrors.

Bingle was much easier. He was built like a fashion magazine editor's wet dream, and he was both patient and gracious, as long as the sword case was within sight. He was flexible about all things, but he drew the line at his boots, despite the boutique clerks cooing and ooing over them, impressed by the rough wear that they had gone through. So Eliot had suggested a modified version of his Fillory outfit: dark, indigo blue bootcut jeans that looked almost black, a tailored black shirt with white piping that suggested a uniform, and a soft brown leather jacket that nearly matched the shade of his boots.

Eliot got himself a pair of sunglasses, and upon second thought, got Janet a pair too, heart-shaped with rhinestones around the frame. It got stupid sunny in Fillory sometimes, and the dwarves just hadn't managed to perfect even swapmeet-grade sunglassses just yet..

Benedict quickly offered to pay, which was just as good because Eliot didn't have much in the way of money on him. He would have finagled some money out of an ATM or even an unattended register if he had to, but that just seemed so...vulgar.

Now that they were done with clothes, with Benedict giving Bingle a really serious and lingering eyebanging, Eliot considered his job almost complete, except that there was no locator spell whose purpose of existing was finding a good place for brunch that also served really good Bloody Marys. 

*****

It hadn't taken them more than two hours to run all their errands, which Eliot took as a minor miracle. He didn't want to be away from Fillory too long; the more time he was on Earth, the more time passed there, and he didn't want the others to worry excessively. Plus, there was that whole thing of Death not doing its job. That was probably making things pretty troublesome back home.

“All right. Let's see what we've got.” He looked over his notes again; after carefully questioning Benedict and Bingle, he couldn't find a specific pattern to the appearance of Death. So maybe it would have attacked last night, but perhaps his wards were too strong. So he walked around the house and took them down, replacing them with basic alarms that would signal the presence of anything that shouldn't have been there, and just to be safe, a basic containment spell that would keep extraneous magical energies from escaping, in case he needed to do some combat magic.

That didn't take too long. In the meantime, the waiting was growing boring.

“Why don't you show me that program of yours, Benedict?”

“Sure!” Benedict opened up his laptop and logged in. Immediately, Eliot noticed something strange.

“What...what's this grid on the opening screen?” It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

“Oh, that's just a screenshot from a visualization of the program's backend. Designed it myself.” Benedict beamed. “Now, what do you want to see? I've got Fillory, Middle-earth, and about a quarter of Darkover. Still working on that one.”

“Wait. I want to see more of this backend.”

“It's just a bunch of code but...okay, there's sort of this trick I can do to make it show up visually. You sort of loop the whole thing through a...” Benedict's voice trailed off as he focused on his task, moving chunks of code around, adding a few lines here and there.

A moment later, he did something and the program restarted itself. As soon as Benedict opened the virtual visualization, Eliot stared for a moment, trying to place the unassuming gray grid.

He looked closer, and then gasped, almost falling off the couch.

It was the Neitherlands. It had to be the Neitherlands. Somehow, something Benedict had done had connected his damn computer program to that place that connected all the worlds. The view was from the sky, looking down at the grid of fountains and libraries. 

“This really isn't that interesting. Though...huh...” Benedict zoomed in closer to the grids. “Never noticed they were fountains.”

“No wonder Bingle came through. This must have been how Death got through too.”

“Huh? What?”

“Benedict, I think you should shut this down. It's...like a two-way-”

Suddenly Bingle was on his feet, magic sword drawn. There was a weird groan that seemed to come through the entire house, a low growling sound that if Eliot didn't know better was the passing of a nearby freight train or a massive construction vehicle. But it wasn't.

A second later his magical alarms went off with soft pings, and Eliot rolled his eyes. He had a few spells charged up on the backburner, but he wasn't about to throw around magic unless he knew what he had to do. He put on his crown and took up his sword. If only he had brought his cloak too, for maximum effect, but that wasn't something he could have foreseen when he crashed out on that distant beach in Fillory.

The room suddenly grew darker, and sort of gray, and Eliot thought that it was almost like that day that Josh had opened his miniature black hole. Only much colder and more distressing, as the edges of the room seemed to fade in and out of his vision and the color slowly seeped out.

A young boy appeared, his dark eyes cold and disinterested, as if some ancient, ancient evil looking out through a mask of innocence that could barely contain it. Eliot stood up and stepped forward.

“Benedict Fenwick.” Its voice seemed slightly bored. There was a faint modulation to it, as if there were too many teeth involved, a horror movie effect. “You cannot escape Death. What has been fated to be must be.” It took a step toward Benedict, and immediately Bingle came forward, sword at the ready, positioning himself between Benedict and Death.

“Ahem.” Eliot cleared his throat, and carefully stepped before Bingle, gently pushing him back. “I am Eliot, rightful High King of Fillory.” Eliot held up his hand, and Death seemed to pause a little when he saw the dark ring on Eliot's finger. “And I demand to know why you've abandoned your post.”

The boy paused, and suddenly looked a little embarrassed. The edges of the room were going back to normal, and the colors started sorting themselves back out.

“This one has escaped,” Death scowled, and it was almost cute. It pouted in such a way that it reminded Eliot of a child who has lost its ice cream.

“Actually, this one is a different one. I think that if you went back to check, you'd find Benedict Fenwick is safely locked up in your uh, citadel. Gymnasium. Whatever.” Eliot replied. “Did you check?”

Abashed, Death looked at its toes and kicked the ground a little. “No?”

“Well, now. Then how do you know this is the right Benedict Fenwick? And exactly how long have you been away from Fillory now, not doing your job? Must I charge you with dereliction of duty?”

“Foolish king, I have greater powers than any mortal!”

“Yes, probably. But see, Ember's got my back on this one, and I'm going to have to ask you to go home. Or maybe I should tell Him that you've been insolent and naughty?” Eliot called his bluff.

“I...uh.” And that cold dark effect collapsed in on itself, and the house was normal again. Death seemed like nothing more than the very awkward and embarrassed shade of a small boy. Even his voice was different, more human and much less frightening.

“Yeah, that's right. Now go home. You have work to do elsewhere. You're not allowed to interfere outside your jurisdiction.”

“I don't know how. I got lost.” The voice was smaller, and a lot more scared. Eliot sighed.

“Right. Well, at least Ember filled me in on what to do.” He held out his hand with the ring. “I think this should take you home.” Eliot slid it off and set it on the ground. With a wave of his hand, he cast a very simple light spell, the kind he had learned in his first year at Brakebills. That's all Ember said it would take.

The light spell seemed to wrap itself around the ring, a reactive catalyst. A glowing nimbus began to grow around the dark metal, and it slowly stretched out, opening up a portal on the ground. Beyond, Eliot could see some old brickwork and bad florescent lighting. He gave a shiver and reminded himself not to die in Fillory. That kind of lighting made skin look horrible; even blemishes from past lives would be visible.

The child's face lit up and it was almost a look of gratitude. It stepped forward, but was stopped suddenly before it could enter the portal, as if by an invisible barrier.

“Well, shit.” Eliot scowled. “It seems Ember was right. I was hoping he wasn't.”

“About what?” Benedict's voice sounded both quavery and curious. Eliot was pleasantly surprised to realize that the boy hadn't run for it. So he had a lot more steel in him than Eliot suspected.

“He said when time came, it would need a sacrifice...a true sacrifice to open the portal.”

“I'll do it.” Bingle stepped forward immediately, and Eliot grabbed his arm. 

“Don't be stupid. We can figure it out-”

“No. I'll go. It's...I've been too long at this already,” Bingle's melancholy eyes lingered on Benedict, but then he turned to face the portal. He shrugged Eliot off and began to go forward.

“No, you can't!” Benedict had leapt up and grabbed Bingle around the waist from behind. “You can't just leave me here by myself!”

“I'm sorry, Benedict. This is for you.” Bingle twisted out of Benedict's grip with a smooth motion and stepped forward into the shining portal.

There was the sound of something snapping, a silvery, icy sound. The boy stepped through with an easy motion and the portal collapsed on itself in a cold suction of howling wind. Eliot could feel it tug at his hair, but it was without strength, as if it only existed on a magical plane that was not exactly on the same dimension as he was.

The room was silent for a moment, and Bingle lay sprawled on the faded Persian carpet, unmoving.

*****

“Bingle!” Benedict hurled himself at Bingle, tripping over the coffee table mid-stride. But before he could land on the hardwood floor, Bingle had twisted around and caught him in his arms. He held in his right hand the blackened and shattered remains of his magic sword, and he was careful to hold it away, keeping it from hurting Benedict. Absently, Bingle dropped it so he could hold the sobbing Benedict with both hands, stroking Benedict's hair.

“Bingle?” Eliot blinked; he had been sure Bingle was dead. But a moment later, he could feel the sudden presence of a great magic in the air, as if all the molecules of the world had suddenly become super-charged.

Behind him, down the hallway, the great gilt mirror opened up and on the other side was Castle Whitespire. Eliot wondered if Janet, Josh, and Poppy had made it back home yet from the far side of the world.

He could feel Fillory's pull, and he took a step toward the mirror before he even realized it.

“Hey...sorry to interrupt, guys, but it's time.” Eliot smiled gently. Bingle pulled Benedict up onto his feet, arm around his thin shoulders.

“Your Majesty. We owe you a debt of gratitude,” Bingle began, but Eliot cut him off with an imperious wave of his hand.

“Nonsense. It's merely my duty.” Eliot could feel that rush of pride go through him. He had defended Fillory once again.

“You have to go, don't you?” Benedict looked over Eliot's shoulder. “Do you think I could come?”

“No.” Eliot remembered his talk with Ember, on that distant star-strewn shore. “Sometimes when there is a double in another world...well, there can be only one. I don't know how it works, but I think it's like dividing by zero or something. It's complicated.”

“Right.” Benedict sighed, looking wistfully at the world through the mirror.

“I need you to be careful with that program. Don't ever let it get in the wrong hands. It's far more powerful than you know. It can portal to other worlds, so don't be sharing it with anyone else. And...take care of Bingle. Bingle, you take care of Benedict.”

“You know I will, Majesty.”

“All right.” Eliot took a deep, gulping breath. If he stayed any longer, he was going to start getting sentimental and no one wanted that. “See you crazy kids around. Oh, and if you meet a guy named Quentin Coldwater...tell him...” Eliot paused. “Tell him hi for me.”

He turned and walked through the mirror. The portal swirled to a close behind him.

*****

Later they had made it back to Benedict's house, this time without any crazy mishaps, just a long ride down half the length of California on the Coast Starlight. Mostly, Bingle had slept through the trip, but he had rested himself against Benedict, his breath stirring the long strands of Benedict's hair.

For once, Benedict wasn't immediately looking to log in or turn on his computer; he merely watched the scenery go by, an arm around Bingle's waist.

It was night when they got home. A few stars fought through the city glow to hang in the sky. Benedict walked into his house and wrinkled his nose. He hadn't realized how smelly it had gotten, despite the air conditioning. He turned off the cooling system and opened the windows and doors for the first time that he could remember, letting in the cold damp ocean-scented air.

“Bingle?” For a moment he didn't know where Bingle went, but then Benedict went out back and found him staring at the sky. The moon was like a tiny white ornament hanging in a tall eucalyptus tree. Without a word, Bingle put his arm around Benedict's waist and drew him close.

They were quiet for a long time, but then Benedict managed to venture a question that he hadn't been able to ask before.

“Bingle, why didn't you go home to Fillory too? I mean, I think if you want me to, I could send you back, because you know, you came in from the monitor and--”

“Shh.” Bingle gently pressed his index finger to Benedict's lips. “What makes you think I'm not home?”

“Bingle?”

And just then, Bingle turned his head and Benedict caught a glimpse of Bingle's face in the moonlight, and his eyes were bright with some unspoken feeling and not quite like his usual melancholy look and then Bingle's lips pressed against his and after that he could no longer think straight.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Greekhoop, who inspired this story and many others over the years.
> 
> 9/21/2014: Reformatted the chapters to be more consistent with my other related stories.


End file.
